


time and the hour runs through the roughest day

by chalk



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angsty Child Alex, Catholicism, Gen, M/M, Mixed Race Alexander Hamilton, References to Drugs, Slytherin Alexander Hamilton
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-05-16 09:16:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14808516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chalk/pseuds/chalk
Summary: The perpetual dupe of God and fate, Alexander Hamilton, isn’t given anything past a glimpse to his other side. And in place of peace, he receives a life eerily parallel in misery and wholly without familiarity. But keeping the lines between what is and what was becomes difficult when Alexander sees his troubles―new and old―reflected in and intertwined with those of a boy named Harry Potter.





	1. Chapter 1

Waiting had become common place. By no means was he good at it, now or then. But here he sat, running pudgy fingers against worn wood of the bench, feet hovering just above the floor.

The click of the door opening from down the hall alerted him to the end of the conversation between his social worker, Ms. Whalley, and the matron of the nice-enough orphanage he was currently sitting in. Leaning ever so slightly, he heard the final snippets of their conversation.  
“No, no. I promise you, Alexander will have a wonderful time here.”  
“I’m sure he will, he’s a kind, smart boy― you have all my contact information, right?”  
He gave a small sigh and rested his head back against the plaster of the wall. In all truth, he hadn’t expected the process to have passed by so quickly. Just last Sunday he was pulling the syringe out of his mother’s arm, and Thursday evening saw him placed in the startlingly beige main corridor of Saint James Catholic Home for Children.

Ms.Whalley’s voice once again interrupted his thoughts, but this time she was approaching him with the plainly dressed matron in tow.  
“Alexander,” she said when they reached him, kind smiles on their faces, “the two of you didn’t properly meet earlier, but this Mrs. Basset.”  
Ms. Whalley ushered him forward. The bench gave a noticeable creak when he hopped down from it and stood to face the older women in front of him, “Hello,” he began, sticking a small hand out, “my name’s Alexander Hamilton.”

The matron’s smile widened and she took his hand in hers, giving it a gentle shake.  
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Alexander.” her smile deepened, “as Ms. Whalley has probably already told you, I’m the matron here at Saint James, so I’ll be the one taking care of you.”

Alexander nodded, not quite sure what else needed to be said in this situation, much less what an eight-year-old would know to say. He turned his gaze back to the old bench, eyes following the grooves in the wood as Ms. Whalley once again confirmed her contact information and Mrs. Basset spoke the occasional assurances to him. He returned her words with nods and the occasional smile, but his mind, as it always seemed to be after all this, was focused on another place, on another time.

When he saw Eliza’s face, when he slurred his final goodbyes to her and the world, he hadn’t expected to see a new light. He hadn’t expected to begin anew, to become a stranger to a different life, body, and time. One that was eerily similar in its sequence of events, no father and a beautiful, dead mother, yet ironic in its placement, here he stood in the middle of London though he was once lieutenant colonel in an army of treasonous rebels. 

His notice of the silence that settled around him was all the kept him from spiraling into further confusion. His eyes met those of Ms. Whalley, who had in the time of his contemplation picked up her bag and folders. The small, sad smile on her lips let him know exactly what would happen next. Blinking several times, he attempted to get a coherent sentence out, “You ― are you leaving?”  
Her smile faltered for a moment and she pulled her manilla envelopes closer to her chest, “I― “  
“Now? Right now?” he questioned, almost pitifully. Alexander hadn’t meant for the words to come out so accusatory, but at this moment, he found that he had less control than ever over the childish, desperate part of him. 

Ms. Whalley gestured to Mrs. Basset with her only free hand, reminding him that his new matron was still here, “Listen, Mrs. Basset here will take great care of you, alright?”  
She patiently waited for him to nod before continuing, “Here, you can make friends, there are plenty of boys and girls your age here, and you don’t want to spend time with boring adults like how we did this week, right?”  
Nothing about the statement comforted him, and Ms.Whalley seemed to know it, “Don’t worry, okay? We’ll see each other again, I’ll come back to check up on you again very soon.”

And for some reason the words brought him comfort. They said their goodbyes from the doorway and Alexander caught a peak of the dipping sun. He stared at the flickering street lights as Ms.Whalley’s small car pulled out into the road, driving further until it eventually merged into the evening London traffic. He followed Mrs. Basset's steps as she moved back and softly shut then locked the door. The woman ran a hand through her plain brown hair, turned to face him, then flashed her now familiar smile.

“Well, Alexander, it’s gotten rather late, how about we fix you a bit of supper and then head up to your room.”

He had no appetite, “I’m not hungry, Ms. Whalley and I had some sandwiches before we came.”  
The way her forehead creased gave away her doubt at his claim, and he saw the battle in her eyes about whether or not to attempt to feed him anyway.  
“Okay, you must be sleepy anyway, straight to your room then?” she asked, even though she had already placed a delicate hand on his shoulder and began leading him up the stairs. “Meeting the other children and going over the rules can wait until the morning, but Ms. Whalley told me that you’re perfectly behaved so there’s not much new to learn.”

Once they reached the landing, Mrs. Basset turned to the right, “This is where the boys’ rooms are,” they continued and walked into the second doorway, then flicked the lights on. The beige that seemed to be a theme throughout the home infiltrated every room. Alexander spotted three beds, each with their headboards to the wall and evenly spaced from one another. A Batman poster accompanied by a wooden cross were all that decorated the walls, with a curtained window facing him from the wall furthest from the door.

The matron clasped her hands together, “Now you do have two roommates, Ian and Joseph, their a tad younger than you, but they won’t cause you any trouble,” she continued, adding something about their odd habits, but Alexander stopped completely listening. Instead, his eyes wandered around the room. He spotted his little blue bookbag at the foot of the middle bed, and made his way over to it.

Mrs. Basset was close to finishing what she needed to say, “Now, dear, the moment you need anything just come down and ask, but I’ll leave you to sleep now.” 

He muttered a quick “goodnight” to her, then immediately put an ear against the closed door she had just exited from. When he heard the last of her footfalls on the steps, he let out a deep breath. Exhaustion crept into him, and after a bit of deliberation, Alexander removed himself from the floor and onto his new bed. The mattress wasn’t especially comfortable, and didn’t do its job as he attempted to stretch out and find a comfortable position. 

On a good day, the fatigue would close in on his youthful mind and body, and sleep would take him the moment his eyes shut. Bt that didn’t seem to be the case tonight, despite the weariness that clung to him since Sunday. It was all very cruel, he decided, to lose a mother twice, to have to leave home twice, and to know no one all over again. Alexander pulled the blanket over himself, finding comfort in the fact that at least it was soft. There was no reasonable answer as to why all this had happened, but here it was, happening, everything unfolding in front of him and leaving him with nothing but confusion and frustration. But there was little to be won in dwelling in it anymore, not that that stopped him. The past week had filled him an ache deeper than anything he had felt before, for family and friends. The death of Isabella Gonzalez had too greatly resembled that of Rachel Faucette; too sudden, yet too expected.

He ignored the oddly fluttering curtain. He just wanted someone and some rest.


	2. Chapter 2

For some reason, the orphanage took him much longer to adjust to than New York had, and all reasons for that pointed to the unpleasant company. The children weren’t dislikable, but they were still children, not yet capable of cohesive speech and a bit on the dumb side. Luckily, the home wasn’t too crowded and messy, because Alexander wasn’t quite sure what he’d do the next time his sock was soaked through by a puddle of identifiable liquid. The matron and the other women working here were kind, but treated him as though he were another one of the children for the most part. Unless it came to academics. Though all the children attended a close by public school (a system that he would have been envious of when he was a boy in Nevis), it quickly became obvious just how ahead Alexander was when compared to his classmates. He had genuinely tried to tone it down, but he was having trouble understanding how much an eight-year-old was supposed to know. His knowledge had everyone labeling him a “quick learner,” which he didn’t mind, but soon realized forced him into the position of class and home tutor when the teachers at school and employees at Saint James weren’t feeling up to it.

And as glorified as the position made him among the other children, it more often than not led him being put into a job such as this one. That being with young Ian leaning extremely close to him and attempting to read through all of Romans between now and supper.

The introduction to his new roommates came barely an hour after Mrs. Basset had sent him to bed in the form of prodding and whispering from the two six-year-olds, Ian and Joe. The two didn’t exactly get along with each other, and to his misfortune, Alexander found that his own bed between the two boys’ beds was more dangerous than any no man’s land during the harshest battles of the war. 

But besides the occasional thrown pillow startling him out of sleep and Bible speed-reading, the home wasn’t too different from what he had expected. It had all the basic amenities of the time; heat, plumbing, electricity (who could have known how far Franklin’s observations would bring the world), and more. The children were children, and the women were women, all things which he had become accustomed to, but he still felt extremely out of place. Beyond the entire rebirth affair ― which was, to be fair, not the first incident in his lives that set him apart from the ordinary person ― Alexander gradually noticed the unusual things that occurred around him, even before coming to the orphanage.

The first strange occurrence that he could clearly remember was a marker with bright green ink that seemed to enrapture his young mind a few years ago. The ink simply never finished or dried out, no matter how much he used it and how often he left it lying around without a cover. Truthfully, he had only realized the anomaly once he looked back at, but there was definitely something mysterious going on. The scale of that instance was rather miniscule when compared to the times when the sleeves of his shirt disappeared right in front of him on a particularly unbearable summer day or when the goldfish his mother made a copy of itself when a little girl had started badgering him for it, but still notable.

These events never happened in a conceivable pattern or were connected to the any of the others, but they still happened. So, a few days ago, Alexander decided to put a pen to a paper and note every possible thing he could remember from these occurrences; their circumstances, the people around him, the weather, the room. But even then, there didn’t seem to be something that neatly connected them back to one another, aside from his presence. Perhaps he was overthinking it, but could it all really be his mind playing tricks on him?

He slowly pried Ian off his side and attempted to sneak out of their room, but the boy caught him. After a quick promise that he would back within five minutes, he dashed out of the room and made his way to the bathroom, the only place that no one would bother him. He hoisted himself up on the sink’s small, off-white countertop and fell into the very familiar chain of thoughts that included contemplating his life here. If Mrs. Basset and the others were to take notice of the abnormal incidents that spawned around him, right in the middle of their Catholic orphanage, he wasn’t quite sure what excuse he would be able to offer.

After spending what was much more than five minutes in the bathroom, staring at the pink and blue striped wall, he made his way out and took care to sneak past the room Ian was still in, instead, opting to linger about the living area downstairs. Well, that had been the plan before he stumbled on the first step down.

But, he was incredibly surprised when instead of experiencing the blunt force of every single step mauling him, his body simply slid down the staircase. He didn’t dare open his eyes until he had stopped moving. Awkwardly curled into a ball on the bottom landing, Alexander moved his arms from the protective position they had instinctively taken around his head and faced the staircase. 

He blinked several times. The wooden staircase was replaced by similarly colored, and extremely smooth wooden slide. In his haste to raise himself from the floor, the hard banister collided with his head, and during the time of his momentary confoundment, the slide began turning back into a staircase. Now fully upright, staring as the edges of each step refined themselves, Alexander panicked. He spun on the spot, doing scan over the corridor, hoping and praying that no one had seen that. He thought time was on his side when a glance told him that everyone was in their rooms as they usually were this time of day, until his eyes rested on the slightly ajar door leading to the kitchen. And filling this spot was scrawny little Joe, standing there bewildered and staring at the now-normal staircase.

Mouth agape, boy’s frantic eyes shifted to him, and for a moment they stayed like that, each waiting for the other to make the first move. Alexander was the first to open his mouth, but before a sound could come out, Joe had run back into the kitchen, his worn shoes pattering against the tile, creating as much distance as possible between Alexander and himself. After several moments of deliberation, he decided against going after Joe. It would only distress the boy more and he was a bit more concerned with learning how and why that had happened. Crouching down, he ran his fingers against the bottom step and slowly made his was up the staircase, inspecting each one, not quite sure what he was expecting to figure from them. The steps seemed unchanged, they felt how he would have expected them to, just as wooden stairs should, nothing interesting and no explanation.

His days and months after continued so, repetitively attending school, spending hours at a local library, pretending than anything mildly unnatural that happened was in no way connected to him, and avoiding Joe’s gaze. The approaching summer of 1991 would be a waiting game. The past year had seen him applying for admission and scholarships into Britain’s most prestigious and pretentious secondary schools, in part due to Mrs. Basset’s insistence, but considerably because of his need to be challenged that simply couldn’t be satiated amongst school children. 

Upon returning from Mass on a fine day of July, Alexander evaded the green grass and shining sun to throw himself on his bed and lay there. The thin curtains allowed the sun to leave soft patches of light and created a lovely dim glow in the (fortunately empty) room and made the perfect scene for an afternoon nap. He hadn’t really slept the night before for no other reason than to enjoy the quiet that was becoming increasingly rare as the summer break began. Pulling the thin, blue blanket over him, Alexander cranked his neck, rested his head against the pillow, and shut his eyes―

“I hope he hasn’t fallen asleep,” Came Mrs. Basset’s muffled voice from the other side of the shut door, ”poor boy has a terrible habit of staying up all night then spending the rest of the day sleeping.”

Alexander shot up in his bed, picking up the sounds of a second pair of footsteps making their way toward the door, Mrs. Basset seemed to be in conversation with someone. About him.

“Which I ¬― uh, quite hope won’t be a problem, Alexander shows great academic skills―and I’m sure he’ll adjust to any schedule you put him on,” Mrs. Basset corrected, and attempting to rectify any impressions she had given on his character.

The second person made their voice known, “I can only say that we take study very seriously, and that if Mr. Hamilton can turn his late nights into study sessions, then there should be no problem. But from what you’ve already told me, he seems like a very capable boy.” 

Female, stern, and a slightly aged, he gathered. And her comments on his sleeping habits gave him the eerie feeling that she was addressing him directly, not Mrs. Basset. Likely representing an academic institution, not that he could recall any of the applications mentioning at-home interviews. This was not good at all, to say the least. Here he laid, half-curled in his blanket, sleepy-eyed, and possibly about to lose his place at a school, the final being more Mrs. Basset’s fault than his own, but still. Having been surrounded by the American educated elite for a (questionably) good part of his life, he understood from the start that appearances were more important than intellect, and currently, he resembled a leaky garbage bag.

Estimating he had approximately two seconds before Mrs. Basset’s sharp knock met the door, Alexander dragged his body out of bed, adjusted his sleeves, and even managed to get a quarter of the way through fixing the blanket. In a moment of panic, he resolved to simply pull it off the bed, roll it up, and kick it under his bed for the time being. Squaring his shoulders back, he made his way to the door, certain the two women had heard every little sound he just made and knew exactly what happened.

Pulling the door open with a polite smile, he let the pair into the now tidy room.

At first glance, the unfamiliar lady harbored a seemingly natural stern expression, with simple square glasses and a plain gray dress. He wouldn’t say her expression softened in return to his smile, but it did politely become less sharp. 

Mrs. Basset rested a hand on his shoulder and introduced him, “Alexander, this is Professor Minerva McGonagall and she’s come with a great opportunity for you.”

He waited a moment for Mrs. Basset to say the name of the place, but it didn’t come. When it became evident that she had no plant to, Alexander stuck out an arm and shook hands with the professor.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, professor,” he initiated, kindly.  
Professor McGonagall returned his greeting, “Likewise, Mr. Hamilton.”

Instead of staying in the room with them as Alexander expected she would, Mrs. Basset bid them farewell and good luck, not even loitering about the doorway for a while. Not particularly worried, he once turned back and faced the professor. Benevolently deciding to save her from questioning the irremovable stains on Ian’s and Joe’s beds, he directed her towards the chair in front of the small desk Mrs. Basset had taken out of storage for him the last year, “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

“In this case, I would suggest that you do the same, Mr. Hamilton,” she said before sitting, “As I am here to deliver news that many find difficult to adjust to, for lack of better word.”

He blinked. This was not how he had foreseen this discussion to go. He stood for another moment before taking her advice and sitting on his bed. Altogether, he was not quite sure if it was her age or her severe expression that persuaded him into doing what she told, but it undoubtedly related to the feeling that this woman was much wiser than he would ever be.

“What do you mean?” he prompted carefully.

She pursed her lips ever so slightly, not annoyed, but considering, “To keep things simple, I am Minerva McGonagall, professor of transfiguration and deputy headmistress at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

Alexander didn’t dare to even twitch.

She continued, as if she wasn’t looking directly at his still face, “And we wish for you, Mr. Hamilton, to attend in the upcoming school year in order to learn to train and control your magic, which I trust has caused you a bit of distress in the past.”

He resisted the very powerful urge to speak, because he knew himself well enough to predict that once his mouth opened, it would require a force no less powerful than God to shut it. The professor kindly allowed him to his thoughts for the time being, sitting patiently on the cushioned chair.

Alexander found himself placed in the terrible dilemma of deciding to believe what the evidence pointed to or what was simply impossible. He wanted to label this woman a liar, to question how she had convinced Mrs. Basset to let him in the building for the sake of pulling a trick. But she had a quiet sophistication about her that kept him from letting that rash thought be known. Had this happened way back when, he wouldn’t have given this a second thought, he would have branded her mad or a joker, but that was before stairs started turning into slides and fish begun spawning themselves new twins. He wasn’t a strong believer in the curses and enchantment aspects of the supernatural, not when the science of this time disproved much old superstitions, and not when he kept his trust in the divine. But this was different, he could feel it.

“How could you know that it distressed me?” Was the first question he asked, addressing the least important, yet most baffling part of everything Professor McGonagall revealed.

If she wasn’t expecting, she didn’t make it known to him, “It is a rather complicated system to explain, especially to someone with no knowledge of the mechanics of witchcraft,” she began slowly, “but our government, the Ministry of Magic, tracks spikes in magical activity. It’s how muggles, non-magical people, are prevented from learning about magic through young children who have yet to master their own.”

“And ‘spikes in magical activity’ were―uh, recorded from here?” he asked, carefully. Hoping to be able to wring out the workings of their magical government in a moment.

“To put int plainly, yes, and while I’m sure that you are piping with unasked questions, I would first like to settle the status of your acceptation,” as she spoke, she pulled a thin stick out of the side of her dress, “and I think it’s safe to assume that you aren’t quite convinced.”

Seeing no point in disagreeing, he shook his head. Though there was a part of him that desperately wanted such a simple explanation for all the strange things that followed him, calling it ‘magic’ was too vague, too unrealistic.

The professor pointed the stick at the closed curtains and mumbled something, and before his very eyes, the dreary blue cotton thickened and elongated, turning into a deep velvet. McGonagall flicked her wand again and the regal drapes parted, spilling light all over the room.

As unsure as he was, he stood up and walked carefully to the window.  
“You’re welcome to touch it,” she assured.

The unmistakable feeling of velvet met his fingers, it’s strong sheen stunning in the sunlight. Not only did it look and feel like a completely different fabric, but an expensive one at that. He appreciated the small details in the weaving, little patterns that could only have been stitched by the most precise of machines. The once frayed bottom had been beautified into thick, goldish tassels and the wearied edges smoothened and glowed with golden embroidery. And most importantly, it was no longer something that he could ignore.

He turned back to Professor McGonagall who continued to sit there primly and was almost smiling.  
“If you decide that the opportunity interests you,” she said, handing him a thick envelope that she already had out by the time he finished observing her work.

The familiar texture and heaviness of parchment fell on his fingertips. In rich, green ink, Alexander read his name and address off the envelope, then turned it over and ran his hand against the purple was seal. A lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake around an ‘H’ decorated the coat of arms. Slipping it open, he scanned over the two sheets inside: an acceptance letter with uncommon names and ridiculous credentials, then a supply list that expected him to purchase things that didn’t exist. He held back a scoff as he read the capitalized condition on the very bottom of the second paper:  
PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS.

“I don’t expect you to understand much of it, I’m afraid the supply list has yet to be adapted to children who do not have a magical background,” she said, as a sort of disclaimer.

“Are there a lot of people like that?” he questioned, “Without a magical background, I mean to say.”

“Not on as great of a scale as children who have at least one magical parent, but there are fair amount, and a few that will be attended Hogwarts with you,” she elaborated, “if you wish to attend, that is.”

The real question in all of this. Would he go? Upon further thought he realized there was really little risk in saying yes, when it came down to it and all this were to fail, all he would truly gain was disappointment.  
“I suppose I am.”

“Glad to hear it, Mr. Hamilton,” and if Alexander squinted, he could see the slight upturn of the corner of her lips, “I’ll be by again tomorrow and we will gather your supplies then. Noon, exactly, I trust you’ll be ready.”

And just like that she got up and made her way to the door, “Good day, Mr. Hamilton.”

She had already reached the door before turning to him once again, “Oh, I nearly forgot.”  
And instead of looking at him, her eyes focused on the magicked curtains, she pulled out her want and pointed it to the window. Within the second they reverted into the blue curtains they once were, but Alexander couldn’t help but see them as sad, cold rags.

“’Til tomorrow, professor,” he blanked, absently waving his hand.

He waited until he heard the distant click of the building’s front door close behind her and then vaulted Ian’s bed to get to the window. He pressed his nose against the glass and stared at the walkway that led from the front and off the property. There was no one there. 

The only evidence of Professor McGonagall’s visit was the letter he had dumped on the bed and the miniature red tassel she had left on the window sill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoping to tackle Diagon Alley, the Express, the sorting, and a few introductions next chapter. thanks for reading, i really appreciate it.


	3. Chapter 3

The morning saw Alexander fed, ready, and pacing worriedly far before he needed to be. He had realized that morning that he was more distressed by the prospect of McGonagall arriving than he was by her not showing up at all. She had left him without a clue of where they could possibly find any of the items on the list and wondering where in hell he would find the money to cover the cost of his supplies. He was familiar enough with buying books, and course books typically came at no low price, nor did such uncommon school uniforms and supplies.

He stood still a moment, considered the possibility of McGonagall not arriving, then continued pacing. He was fairly confident that she would come. Or maybe he had placed on unwise amount of hope on her character and a worrying amount of optimism at her words. Interrupting his circular walking, he made his way back to his bed and put his hand into the pillow case. After a moment of groping around, his hand landed on the smooth strings of the small tassel and pulled it out. He stared at it for a moment and thought back to the events of the day earlier before tucking it into his back pocket. She would come.

A soft knock came from the door and Maggie’s, one of the younger employees at the home, head peaked through.  
“Hey, Alex, I know you’re leaving soon, but could you help Joe out with reading for a few minutes?” she blurted, probably having been stretched thin between tutoring and potty training the entire morning.

Knowing that there was nothing else he could do to prepare for the trip and feeling extreme pity for Maggie, he responded with a “Yes, sure,” and followed her long black braids out of his room and into the downstairs living area. She gestured vaguely at the direction Joe and a few other children were sitting, books strewn about, then zoomed the other way and turned a corner, presumably to the distant voices of the smaller children in the bathroom. He said a little prayer wishing her the best then drifted over to Joe’s seat.

Joe jolted when he noticed Alexander at his shoulder, who had been there for a few moments.

“Sorry,” he murmured, not wanting to disturb the other children, ”Maggie said you needed some help?”

Joe did a quick sweep across the room and seemed to notice that Maggie wasn’t there before giving a rather jerky nod.

Though they shared a room, the two of them had never been that close, even before the slide fiasco. Considering how long ago it happened, Alexander was still slightly surprised that Joe still occasionally jumped at the sight of him, but was also impressed that the boy hadn’t told anyone. He was very young when it happened, and Alexander was certain that if he were to witness something like that as a boy he would’ve spread the news like a wildfire. But Joe was a naturally quiet boy who exhibited self-control and an unobtrusive nature that Alexander was in no way interested in mimicking. Being meddlesome was too ingrained in his own character.

Pulling up an identical chair and taking a seat, he listened to Joe as he pointed out the words he was having the most trouble with and continued like that for a few minutes after Maggie returned. Alexander stayed and watched them, he had half an hour to spare and wasn’t in the mood to deal with his own repetitive internal debates.

He was sure time sped up in those last thirty minutes because at one moment he was leaning head back in his chair and the next he was closing the door behind himself and Professor McGonagall as they made their way onto the sidewalk. Her appearance was a pleasant surprise, and he found himself much more relaxed after seeing her stern face and black glasses at the doorway. She had taken a moment to have a quick chat with Mrs. Basset, who Alexander was now almost certain drifted into an odd state whenever Hogwarts was implied, then the pair of them had left.

There were no cars that didn’t belong to the staff parked up front, which seemed to be the direction they were heading, and Alexander hadn’t mentally prepared himself for spending the day walking around London. McGonagall turned and he followed closely behind her as they took a few more steps then stopped. Turning his head back, he saw they hadn’t traveled very far and were just out of sight from the orphanage.

He looked up at her and considered voicing his confusion before the professor decided it was time to let him know what was going on.

“How would you feel about using magical transportation to get your supplies?” she asked, not keenly, but not without interest.

As with just about every interaction he had with the professor, she didn’t say what he was expecting her to, but he thought on her offer.  
“How would we do that?” he asked with apprehension.

“Apparition,” she began as though it were a lesson, “is what muggles would describe as teleportation, by focusing on a location, the witch or wizard may transport themselves there instantaneously. Now hold onto my arm.”

“Huh?” he let out accidentally, shocked by the seemingly unlimited power magic carried and slightly taken aback by the professor’s request.

She moved her left arm outward, towards him, “To carry you along with me, Apparition requires direct contact. I would also suggest that you take a few deep breaths first, it’s hardly the most comfortable of experiences and can be vomit-inducing for beginners.”

The last thing Alexander wanted to do was puke all over Professor McGonagall, the thought was so terrifying that he was tempted to just ask her if they could call down a cab, or even just walk to wherever they needed to go for that matter. He reached out to put a hand on her arm.

“Do not let go,” she advised.

But before he had the proper chance to digest the suggestion, the most uncomfortable feeling imaginable enveloped his body. He felt as though even his insides were being pushed around, and every part of him felt out of place and wrong. His entire body went rigid when his feet unexpectedly made impact with a solid surface, and he immediately fell of all fours and took deep, ragged breaths until his heart calmed. That must have been what being born felt like, he decided, and was extremely thankful that he could quite remember how that felt.

He tried pull himself up off the ground but ended up needing McGonagall to steady him.

“Why would anyone want to travel like that?” he blurted without realizing, still a little unsure of where he was standing and struggling to stay up.

“As strange as it may feel, it is the most efficient way to travel. Though many witches and wizards do prefer broom travel or Floo Powder in their say to day lives, both are less likely to see the performer losing a limb,” she explained offhandedly, giving him a moment to fully right himself.

Not quite sure which part of that response he wanted to address first, Alexander decided to focus on his energy on not regurgitating his breakfast. A quick look around told him that they gone from the sidewalk to an alley that opened to a very different, much busier sidewalk. McGonagall went further into details on the machinations and history of Floo powder and disadvantages of Apparition as they integrated into London’s steadily moving pedestrian traffic. Eventually, they stopped at the front of a small, almost unnoticeable bar entrance squished between a radio shop and book store.

McGonagall wrapped up the short lesson she was giving on splinching, which she insisted was a lot less horrifying than it sounded, as they entered the ‘Leaky Cauldron.’ The bar was dark and dreary, with quiet, bizarrely dressed people lounging about the corners and tables. She gave a quick tap to her sleeve with her wand and the simple dress she wore transformed into long, emerald robe and the most stereotypical witch’s hat appeared on her head, blending in perfectly with the rest of the bar’s company The soft conversational buzz of the place calmed him, even though he wasn’t quite sure what they were doing in a pub. But the professor kept walking, nodding at the hunchbacked bar keeper and continuing past him.

Once they entered an empty, walled courtyard McGonagall stopped and then pointed her wand towards a brick, the wall rumbled for a moment before beginning to shift. The bricks moved, scraping against each other, and it took him a moment to make out the archway being formed by the gaps in the wall. Sounds of hundreds of voices and street clatter impacted him as soon as the gaping shape in the wall settled.

His first step into Diagon Alley left him breathless. The streets bustled with energetic crowds, containing anyone from hunchbacked women seemingly older than time to toddlers clambering on their fathers’ backs. It was incomparable to the hurried drudge of the crowds of New York or London, and infinitely more exciting. He didn’t have the time to finish a proper inspection of the people before his sight latched on to one thing or another, every bright sign, advertising vendor, and new scent shared his attention.

“You are welcome to ask about anything,” McGonagall’s voice came while he tried get a peak into a small sign over a tub announcing ‘BEETLE EYES – HALF-OFF,’ “I can only imagine how different this must be.”

McGonagall had unknowingly sealed her fate, Alexander jumped from topic to topic, discussing the ‘Ministry of Magic’ that she had mentioned the day before to obscure magical theory he couldn’t begin to fathom, all within their walk to a pristine looking shop called ‘Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions.’ Upon entering, he was bombarded by the sight of flying tape measures, hovering mirrors, and self-rotating robes, a far cry from the neat, almost elegant storefront. In the middle of the chaos, a short woman whose entire outfit consisted of mauve scrambled to the front of the room and immediately greeted the professor with a smile.

“Oh! Minerva, it’s been quite some time since I’ve seen you!” she gushed, nodding at the professor, too occupied with the heaps of fabric in her arms for a handshake.

“It has,” McGonagall contended, “Hogwarts required a fair amount of preparation for the upcoming school year.”

They chatted for a few moments, but Alexander was barely listening, most of his attention was being held by the neon green scarf that was causing havoc everywhere it flew. He became increasingly concerned about the possible injury of bystanders, especially himself, when the tape measure wrapped around the scarf and began suffocating it. A strong sense of horror washed over him when the scarf began making human-like gagging noises, and a younger, hassled seamstress pulled the two rabid things apart from one another with her bare hands.

“New student?” Madam Malkin inquired fondly.

Turning back to the two women, he gave a short “Yes,” and tried recall where their conversation had been going before that surreal distraction.

Madam Malkin seemed to almost poke fun at Professor McGonagall for bringing him around when the Hogwarts letters had just come out the day before, then led him to a stool that he was instructed to stand on. She threw a long, black robe over his head and set to work pinning it down for size, all while talking to professor about what he assumed to be wizard current events. He tried to absorb what they were saying about rising potion ingredient prices, but became more lost the more exotic the creatures got. 

The large window not too far in front of him gave him a clear view of the many witches, wizards, and magical spectacles outside. Diagon Alley baffled him, he wasn’t sure what he had been expecting from Professor McGonagall after she had told him of the existence of magic just the day before, but what he was seeing at that moment decidedly wasn’t it. Alexander stood patiently, attention unevenly divided between the ice cream parlor a few stores down, the feral scarf that had made an unanticipated reappearance, and the ladies’ conversation, which had turned to broomsticks, and not the type for cleaning.

“Well,” Madam Malkin said, clasping her hands together, “I’ll make a few adjustments to your robes and they’ll be ready within the hour, along with the gloves and hat you’ll be needing.”

“Thank you, madam,” he returned with a nod. She gave him what could only be described as a motherly rub on the back as he lowered himself from the stool, mumbling about how she rarely met boys who were as half as polite anymore.

He watched as Professor McGonagall pulled out a few silver and bronze coins from the pouch on her side then said her goodbyes to Madam Malkin.

“Don’t be such a stranger Minerva!” Madam Malkin said, before vanishing into the forest of brightly colored garments.

Alexander didn’t wait for the door to shut behind him, “How does the currency work here?”

McGonagall pursed her lips in thought, “The currency is often what muggle-born and raised students find most confusing when integrating into wizarding society,” she began.

He shut out the noise surrounding them and gave her his full attention. McGonagall pulled out three coins, each of different sizes, imprints, and material and placed them in his hand.

“This is a galleon,” she started, pointing to the gold one, the largest of the three, “here, is a silver sickle, and that is a bronze knut.”

He ran his finger over the engravings on each and flipped them over, “Are they made of real gold and silver and bronze?”

“Yes, all controlled and verified by the goblins and Gringotts Bank,” she affirmed, and gestured to the towering, white building a fair way down the road. His amusement at what he thought was a jab at the bank employees shortly turned into discomfort when McGonagall explained that there were, in fact, actual goblins that completely oversaw the entire wizarding world’s monetary system.

Alexander was deeply questioning the prudence of giving another species domain over all currency without any government supervision, but the professor was quite insistent that the goblins were reliable.  
“While many wizards share your uncertainty on goblin dependability, Mr. Hamilton,” she put plainly. “The Ministry decided centuries ago the most significant threat to wealth of wizards are other wizards.”

“I suppose,” he said, not quite convinced.

“Now,” she continued with her original lecture, “there are twenty-nine knuts to a sickle and seventeen sickles to a galleon.”

Unfortunately, the words left him before he had a chance to filter them, “That seems ridiculously inconvenient.”

“Not when you have magic,” Professor McGonagall smiled, easing his distress. 

Continuing on their way, Alexander noted the amount of people who nodded, waved at, or otherwise greeted Professor McGonagall. Not having the time, he never pondered on the possibility of other magical learning institutions in the country, and judging by the sheer number of people who seemed to be familiar with the professor, it made it clear that Hogwarts was the most popular if competition was present. Or perhaps it was just the woman’s demeanor that frightened others into saying a quick hello. Her commanding presence wasn’t something he had seen in a lady of his time, and his meeting with her the previous day ushered memories of his first encounter with the General. 

Alexander paused his thoughts. They two could never be truly comparable. Per usual, his desperation for familiarity simply had him drawing weak comparisons.

Evening out his breathing, he focused on the cobbled road in front of him until they reached their next destination. They exited quickly from the next few shops, purchasing several quills (which he had only missed the comfort, not practicality of), a monstrous amount of parchment (incredibly wasteful and much too archaic), and a large, wheeled trunk that the clerk insisted could withstand a dragon’s breath (McGonagall didn’t look convinced). After several minutes, it became obvious that both he and the professor were uncomfortable with the silence Alexander suddenly decided to shroud himself in. He had been certain that he wouldn’t be the one to break the silence first, but by that time, they had passed two bookstores and an apothecary, which he assumed would contain the bulk of the rest of the supplies he required.

“Um,” he hesitated. “Where are we headed?”

“A quick detour, we’ll get your wand first.”

Nearly stumbling at her words, he looked at the many storefronts on either side of them, eventually catching glimpse of a run-down shop with faded, golden name over the door:

Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.

The professor paused a few feet ahead of the entrance, and gave him fair warning, “It’s best to let you know that many find Mr. Ollivander disquieting upon meeting him, but I assure you, he’s one of the most well-respected masters in his craft.”

Nothing that the date on the wall and the state of the place hadn’t let him know. 

A bell chimed upon their entrance and Alexander hadn’t been prepared for the taste of dust that tinged the air. An uncanny, yet soothing energy prickled his skin, the entire shop almost hummed with its own silent magic. He let himself become familiar with the feeling, and ran his eyes over the long, thin boxes that were stacked to the ceiling. There must have been hundreds, and who knew how old―

“Good afternoon.”

“Christ!” he hissed, nearly having jumped from the shock. The voice belonged to an old man with the most piercing gray eyes, just feet in front of him. But he wasn’t here to make terrible first impressions, “Pardon my language, sir, I was…” he stalled with a cough, “startled.”

The second of silence that followed was brutal.

“Perfectly understandable. I’ve received more volatile reactions in my time,” and the man was suddenly closer than he was a moment ago, “Muggle-born?”

Alexander nodded, though doubted that the man hadn’t already pieced it together.

“Always a challenge, always most interesting,” he muttered, pulling out a tape measure that flew into the air and began by taking a measurement of the length of his nose.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Ollivander. How have you been?” Professor McGonagall called from her place near the window.

Mr. Ollivander’s lips formed a smile, “Minerva McGonagall, good to see you. Fir and dragon heartstring. Nine and a half inches.”

“Must we do this every time, Garrick?” she said, her politeness sounding strained.

“Ideal for transfiguration. Stiff. Still in good condition, I assume?” he finished, now behind the counter and pulling several boxes from the walls.

“Pristine,” she affirmed. “You’ve just met Mr. Alexander Hamilton, rising first-year.”

Eyes tracking the man as he made his way back towards the two of them, Alexander confirmed that the man hadn’t teleported the first time, he was just unnaturally quick and light-footed, ridiculously so for someone his age. Which was somehow more unsettling than the idea of Ollivander just teleporting.

Mr. Ollivander took out a sleek, dark wand first and handed it to him.

“This one is ebony wood containing a unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy.”

Alexander held it from its middle, looking fixedly at the wand maker.

After boring patiently back at him for a moment, Mr. Ollivander finally let him know what he was supposed to be doing, “Give it a wave, Mr. Hamilton. And hold it from the end please, we don’t want an injury.”

“Oh,” he said, opting out of question the second comment. He held the wand from what he hoped was the bottom and wiggled it slightly. Luckily, Mr. Ollivander yanked it out of his hand before he could feel any more foolish.

Placing it on the waiting chair that looked as old as him, Mr. Ollivander took out another.

“Take a look at this, a supple cedar wand. Seven and three quarters. Dragon heartstring core.”

The cycle continued, and as Alexander began feeling embarrassed from none of the wands working for him, Mr. Ollivander got more excited. Despite having been interested in how wands worked and the differences in function between an elm and a maple, Alexander feared questioning the wand maker’s process.

“I know just the one,” Ollivander trailed off, darting out of line of vision and returning within a few seconds with a box just like all the others in his hand. “Aspen and unicorn tail hair. Ten and a half inches. Nice and firm.”

With indifference in his heart, Alexander raised the ivory colored wand and moved his wrist. The tip began to spark, and though his immediate instincts told him to drop it, the wand seemed to be latching back onto him and Alexander found that he didn’t really want to let go anyway. White and blue lights shot into the air and faded. He heard a short applause from the direction of Mr. Ollivander and Professor McGonagall, but his gaze was still fixed to where the lights once were.

His heart stopped for a moment when Mr. Ollivander came closer with his hand out, but quickly realized that the man only wanted to return it to the box for safe carry. Letting out a breath, he allowed his questions that he hadn’t realized he had been holding out.

Once he gathered his wits the questions came pouring in, but Ollivander had already begun with his explanation before he had a chance to articulate them in a comprehensible way.  
“Ah, aspen,” he said, fondly. “Excels and charmwork. Extremely sought after, especially a few centuries back.

Alexander expected that Ollivander knew this from personal experience, but was too enamored to ask.

“The duelist’s wand―“

His heart was drumming and his blood went cold, “What do you mean by that?”

The words had come out more harshly than intended, and Ollivander only continued to affectionately gaze at the box in his hand.

Professor McGonagall’s voice answered his inquiry, “I’m not certain that it’s in Professor Binns’s History of Magic curriculum, but in the eighteenth-century, there was infamous and secretive dueling club who called themselves the Silver Spears,” she continued her clarification. “Allegedly, only those who could wield aspen were allowed membership.”

“It has been found to choose strong-willed. The wand of revolutionaries, many call it,” Ollivander asserted.

Alexander cleared his throat and chose his next words very carefully, “Well, there were awful lot of revolutions in the eighteenth-century, after all.”

Ollivander returned the wand to him, now safely boxed and McGonagall paid him several galleons.

“I wish you the best of the coming school year, Mr. Hamilton.”

He met the old man’s unblinking, silvery eyes for what he hoped to be the final time in the foreseeable future, “Thank you, Mr. Ollivander. I greatly appreciate the time you’ve given us today.”

Once safely out on the road, Alexander regretted not taking McGonagall’s earlier warnings to heart. The cobbled stones that paved the ground pulled back the memories of the completely unnecessary silence he had caused, but he couldn’t imagine staying quieter a minute longer after they had stomached that experience in the wand shop together.

“If my wand were to be damaged,” he began, “Do you know of any other establishments that could fix it? Preferably with little to no distress to my mental state.”

McGonagall lips upturned ever so slightly, “As…unique as Mr. Ollivander is in terms of personality, you’ll find that he makes up for it with his extensive knowledge in wandlore.” She paused for a moment, “But yes, I do know a place.”

Alexander laughed and they continued on to the less crowded of the two bookstores they had passed earlier. Suffice to say, he had no plans of leaving soon. While McGonagall zeroed in on the harried-looking employee to find the textbooks on the list, he wandered the by the bookshelves, occasionally running a finger down the spine of an aged book he came across. Most of the books were second-hand, that much was obvious from a glance, but he didn’t mind. He spotted a few works by authors he was greatly familiar with in the non-magical world, coming across several of Shakespeare’s best, and quietly hoping that the man wasn’t a wizard himself. For the moment, he settled on a well-loved hardcover displayed on the store’s ‘All-Time Best Sellers’ shelf called _Hogwarts: A History_. 

He had just flipped past the index when McGonagall returned with a stack of books floating behind her and looked at the book, “Mr. Hamilton, I was just on my way to the cashier. I suggest bringing that one with you, Professor Bagshot covered beyond what every Hogwarts student should know.”

Confused, he glanced down and noticed that Bathilda Bagshot was the author’s name under the large Hogwarts crest. They walked towards the front together and he noticed interesting motto the school had chosen, “Never tickle a sleeping a dragon?” he asked, baffled, but amused.

The professor seemed to be resisting letting out a sigh, “To this day, no one is quite sure what possessed the founders to leave a phrase like that as their legacy,” she complained, looking at the page he was reading from then pausing. “You understand Latin?”

He was still flipped to the image on the cover page, “Very.”

“Well, that ought put you further ahead of than any of your classmates, and most upper-classmen, for that matter. The majority of the spells you will learn have Latin-based roots,” she elaborated. “Do you speak any other languages?”

This is where he had to take the care to tread lightly. If all went well, he would spend the seven years of his life with the professor not too far away. It would be exceedingly foolish to let everything slip, but he wouldn’t be able to constantly dumb himself down while surrounded by genuine witches and wizards. Not to mention his previous interaction with Ollivander, it had shaken him, that impression that the man knew much more than he let on. 

And he did not wish for Professor McGonagall to see him as a liar.

“Uh, yes,” he replied. “French and Spanish, most fluently. A fair amount of Dutch, and Hebrew less so.” He settled on excluding Greek for the time being, and very consciously and causally deflected more questioning, “Are there wizard languages?”

McGonagall directed the floating books to the front counter while answering and Alexander set his own down, “There are, but they’re mostly the native languages of magical beings that aren’t human. Mermish is spoken by merpeople, most goblins revert to Gobbledegook when amongst their own, and there is some debate on whether trolls have the intelligence to form their own language or if they just communicate through gibberish.”

“I see,” he said, slowly. 

Their trip ended with the purchase of potion supplies then a brief stop at Madam Malkin’s for his clothes pick-up, and Alexander doubted that he would ever rid his nose of the smells in Slug & Jiggers Apothecary. He memorized the Leaky Cauldron’s address on Charing Cross road as they walked back onto muggle streets, turning down into the same alley from earlier, and Apparating a block down from Saint James. Mental preparation did little, and he found himself on the ground with McGonagall helping him up for the second time that day. Just as they reached the gate, the professor imparted upon him the most crucial information of all.

“Mr. Hamilton, inside this envelope are very specific instruction you will need for transportation to Hogwarts in September,” she said, handing him an envelope similar looking to his acceptance letter. “It also contains enough to cover your cab fare to get to King’s Cross Station, which is where you’ll board the train to the school. You’re welcome to write with any question, if you address the letter to Hogwarts and put it in the mail, it’ll find its way to us.”

A moment passed before he realized that this is where they would bid each other farewell, and most likely not see one another until the school year began.

McGonagall went first, “I hope you enjoy the rest of your summer, Mr. Hamilton.”

He nodded, “The same to you, Professor. Thank you for all your help.”

The days after his excursion to Diagon Alley were sleepless and impatient. He wasn’t sure if he was eager or terrified for September. Though he had practically devoured the books several times over, memorized the letter, and practiced walking in his robes, he still felt it would be impossible to be absorbed by the children at Hogwarts. And as much as he sat down and forced himself to grasp that he was going through unnecessary measures to impress _children_ , he was still rereading _Hogwarts: A History_ by the end of the evening.

____Ian and Joe decided that this summer was one too beautiful to waste indoors, leaving Alexander alone in the room. He wasn’t quite sure if he was appreciative of the silence, or the lack of distractions bothered him even more. Maggie was his only godsend in these soul-trying times. She had picked up his desperation for some sort of diversion and put him to work reading to the children, putting them to bed, and even the occasional cooking lesson in the kitchen. But while the unremarkable chores kept him from spending all day in his books, they did draw his attention to his living situation in Hogwarts. He was well aware of the basics: he would share a dorm with boys in his year in his house. Suffice to say, Alexander prided himself on being an orderly person, and he couldn’t imagine having to share a room with littering eleven-year-olds. Sharing a room with two boys who were incapable of making their own beds had shown him that he couldn’t withstand ten months of mess with more people. He wouldn’t survive it, but there was little he could change anymore._ _ _ _

____On the final evening of July, he received a message from a pleased-looking Maggie while sat on his bed, doing a once-over all his clothes and pleasure readings that he planned on bringing along. She informed him with a soft smile that Mrs. Basset wanted to speak with him in her office, then practically carried him down the stairs, leaving him with a pat on the back in front of Mrs. Basset’s ajar door. He knocked on the frame and entered on the matron’s permission._ _ _ _

____“Hello, Alex. Excited for tomorrow?” asked the older woman in her familiar, kind tone._ _ _ _

____He nodded his head, “Yes, very.”_ _ _ _

____She nodded and gestured for him to sit, “I would say that I hope you’re not worrying too much, but I know you’re the type to stay jittery right up until you arrive,” she drummed her fingers on the desk. “But, that’s not why I called you in here.”_ _ _ _

____That was certainly an ominous way to pause the conversation, he thought._ _ _ _

____Mrs. Basset began to open a small box that he hadn’t noticed was on her desk. He didn’t recognize what it was until she had completely pulled it out. A silver cross. The first eight years of this life were surrounded by that very necklace, draped on a brown neck and framed by curly black hair. The original chain had been long broken, he knew that much, he had been the one to pick it up off the kitchen floor after a particularly long night. But there it was, perhaps more beautiful than before, dangling on a thin black ribbon._ _ _ _

____“I know you said that you didn’t want it last time,” she said softly. “But I thought that maybe this time you—”_ _ _ _

____“Yes.”_ _ _ _

____In absolute honesty, he had forgotten about the necklace. He couldn’t recall the last time he had just put everything on pause and thought about the first eight years of this life. He knew he hadn’t been in a right enough state to go through everything back when it happened, the combination of a child’s mind and familiar blow of loss made it impossible. Isabella had left the world too soon._ _ _ _

____He let Mrs. Basset walk behind him and tie the ribbon around his neck, and watched the pendant settle right below his collarbone. The night ended with him curled up in his blanket and tears on the bed sheets._ _ _ _

____His stomach was in knots on the morning of September first. Eyes open by dawn, he had made his way to the bathroom and stared into the mirror for a solid hour before moving along with his routine. He checked his bags thoroughly before heading down for breakfast, where he expectedly only finished half of his meal before he settled on picking at the pancakes with his fork. Maggie maintained full eye contact with him until the plate was cleared and every drop of orange juice was swallowed. He ran back to his room and slipped into the clothes he had left out the previous night, then checked his trunk. Twice. Slowly, as to not disturb the slumbering Ian and Joe, he dragged his possessions down the stairs. He slung himself on a chair and burned an hour and a half perusing through _Hogwarts: A History_.___ _

______At a quarter to ten, the cab arrived and Alexander steeled himself. Mrs. Basset’s affection for him seemed to increase tenfold that morning, shown by her tense need to constantly smooth out his clothes, as if hours on a train wouldn’t wrinkle them anyway. Maggie hugged him and he waved goodbye to the groggy Ian and Joe as they clambered down the stairs in search of food just as he was making his way out._ _ _ _ _ _

______The driver was kind enough to load his bags in the trunk, which gave him the time to breath and reflect on a single fact—in a few hours, he would be in a magic school and surrounded by magical people. And as simple as it sounded when phrased in one sentence, that single thought occupied him for the whole of the ride there. Laying eyes on King’s Cross Station, the first of many unfamiliar places he would come across that day, brought back the butterflies that had been dispelled by Maggie’s homemade orange juice at breakfast. He payed the driver, thanked him for unloading his belongings and loading them on a cart, then made his way inside.  
Peaking over the rattling cart to not crash into anyone was a chore, and he wished more than anything that his height from his life from before wouldn’t carry over. By the time he reached the large, plastic signs over platforms nine and ten, it was half past ten. Alexander pulled out McGonagall’s instructions and checked them once more:_ _ _ _ _ _

_______Access platform nine and three-quarters by entering the barrier between platforms nine and ten (it is suggested that new students shut their eyes and approach at a jog).___ _ _ _ _

________He went up to the barrier and touched it a few times. Solid. He rolled his cart back a few yards. Alexander took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, he was going to plummet himself into a wall because a witch told him to in a letter. He flexed his toes, adjusted his grip, waited for the crowd to thin then started at a walk towards the wall, gradually increasing his speed and shutting his eyes when the barrier was just a few feet away. He slowed down when he registered the sounds around him. A throng of robed, pointed hat wearing people bustled casually about the platform, some climbing onto a steaming red train. Behind him, where he expected to see the solid wall he had just run through was an iron archway with the words _Platform Nine and Three-Quarters _over it. All he had to do to integrate himself with the crowd was take a small step forward.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________None of the animated children or harassed parents took note of him as he dragged his trunk behind him and walked down the gleaming engine, entering the first unoccupied carriage he saw. By the time he had properly secured his trunk under the seat and sat comfortably, more students had arrived on the platform. Would he have to speak to them first? Would it just make more sense to wait to know his dormmates? Where would he be sorted—_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________He noticed the splat before the slimy texture. His instincts reacted before he did and his hand flicked whatever was on it off. The brown lump hit the opposite wall of the carriage with a smack and dropped to the seat in front of him. Wiping the back of his hand on the cushion, he eased out his seat and slowly moved towards the object, nearly jumping when it croaked. A frog. In his carriage. The supply list did say that they were acceptable pets, but he hadn’t expected for one to hop onto his hand during the train ride. It must have belonged to someone—a child at that¬—which meant he couldn’t coax it out the window without feeling like a monster._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Perhaps sitting back down and ignoring it would be the best option, he thought. The frog croaked again in what he decided to take as agreement. Plopping down back in his seat, he looked back out the window and saw students latching onto the train the second it whistled. Within a few minutes, they were moving and platform nine and three-quarters was pulled out of sight. He shoved a hand into his smaller bag and pulled out a gem that he hadn’t gotten the chance to properly look through earlier, a Jefferson biography that the reviews on the back described as ‘absolutely scalding’ awaited him. Almost too perfectly, the frog began hopping its way towards him the moment he pulled it out. Alexander supposed it couldn’t help but be attracted to its own._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Then the warty creature jumped on the cover, obscuring Jefferson’s face. The resemblance was remarkable._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Just as he realized that he would now have to find a way to remove it from the book, there was a knock at the door and a young boy and girl granted themselves entrance._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Have you seen—”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Trevor!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________The frog leapt into the air and out of the room the moment the boy yelled, only for the boy to start running down the hall after it himself._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Alexander turned away from where the frog once sat and looked at the bushy haired girl in front of him, “Was that his frog?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“His toad, yes,” she corrected, then looked down at book in his hand. “Is that Thomas Jefferson?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________He bit back an ‘unfortunately’ and nodded, a bit surprised that a little British girl knew much about anything in the other hemisphere, “Not my first choice of reading, but it’ll serve as a distraction for the ride.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________She smiled, “I’ve brought some light reading as well, but everyone else is eating and talking, I could barely focus.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Alexander noticed how very empty the carriage was, “Well, you’re welcome to stay in here if you’d like.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Really?” she asked, bafflement clear in her voice._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________He wasn’t expecting that response, “Yes, of course.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“It’s just that—well, never mind. I would. I’m Hermione Granger, by the way.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________She sat down on the seat opposite to him, where he hoped Trevor hadn’t oozed from his impact with the wall, dragging in her own trunk behind her. They didn’t speak in the time it took her to settle her belongings, but they did fall into conversation quite easily. She was smart, an outlier compared to others he age, and he found himself needing to remember to pace himself several times as to not overwhelm her. He hadn’t realized how distant he had become from stimulating company._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“It was such a surprise when I found out, my parents never expected to have a witch in the family. And to think there was an entire world hidden from muggles for centuries, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect!” she rambled, excitedly._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________They continued so, comparing their experiences during the introduction to the wizarding world, throwing around tidbits of knowledge they had absorbed along the way, and on several occasions, pulling out a few of the books she had bought on wizard culture and history. Only interrupted by the return of Trevor’s owner an hour or two later._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Um, Hermione,” he stuttered, just as they were talking about the ambiguity surrounding the Sorting Ceremony in _Hogwarts: A History_. “Sorry to bother you, but I’ve lost Trevor again.”___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Hermione muttered a quick ‘excuse me’ and zoomed out of the compartment and into the hall, the boy stumbling behind her. Alexander occupied himself by scanning over her copy of _Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century_ , which she had insisted that he borrow. By the time she got back, she had an interesting tale about how she had witnessed a pathetic attempt at spell casting and then introduced him to Neville, who held Trevor in a deadlock. The sun soon set and Hermione scrambled into the bathroom, unable to believe that they had all forgotten to change into their Hogwarts uniforms.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“Oh, I better go ask the conductor when we’ll arrive as well,” she said as she left the compartment._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Alexander gazed at the starry night sky as he and Neville slipped on their robes, he found less comfort in the idea of reaching the castle than he thought he would._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very sorry about how long this took! it definitely won't take me nearly as long to put out the next one, and hopefully this story will be where i want it to be so we can get on to things that are actually interesting. thank you so much for reading! please leave a comment if you enjoyed or have tips or criticism (i am desperate for attention fellas)!


	4. Chapter 4

“We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes’ time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately,” announced the disembodied voice echoing down the Express.

Neville alternated between wringing his hands and fiddling with his robe, his face a picture of pure fear. Alexander, sitting much more stiffly than he had been a second ago, gazed at the thick forests beyond the window. 

The uncertainty surrounding Hogwarts and his distressing unfamiliarity with this magical world dug at him more than anything else he could recall. As pleasant and enlightening as his conversation with Hermione and Neville was, the feeling of gross unpreparedness nagged his mind―and for the first instance in a very long time, he found himself unconfident in his ability to fake it. Would these born and bred wizards know his history? That he was a foreigner in more than ability?

He didn’t turn when Hermione popped back in, only half-listening as she complained about in-carriage brawls and fat rats. The train’s stop prompted a rush of noise and excitement in perhaps every carriage but their own. Neville still looked to be on the verge of vomiting and Hermione’s complaints turned into fretted rambling. The three of them exchanged glances and began pushing their way off of the train, sandwiched between the robed bodies of older students. 

“Wai―I can’t―Trevor?” Neville yelled.

The crisp, autumn air hit Alexander suddenly, and Neville’s yells were drowned by the clamor created by hundreds of students. Alexander could spot neither him or Hermione in his immediate surroundings. Weaving his way through the sea of his fellow students, he neared a voice that exceeded the volume of all others, howling, “Firs’ years! Firs’ years over here!”

He paused once approaching the source.

Alexander had long understood and come to terms with not being of tall stock. He took little shame in it, and didn’t expect to tower over anyone he met, especially now, but the sheer size of the man in front of him was beyond ridiculous. The man’s face was obscured by dark hair, and similarly colored dark eyes that were only made visible by the lantern he carried. There was a sizeable group of children―his future peers, he assumed―gathered around the giant, and more being called. While the rest of students unabashadley stared at the man, Alexander looked at the narrow, uncobbled path that led into the forest ahead and straightened his back.

“C’mon, follow me — any more firs’ years? Mind yer step, now! Firs’ years follow me!” the man said once their group had stopped growing. They sludged down the path, fear and anxiety potent in the air. He kept his posture formal and minded his step, eventually reaching Neville who had stumbled several times, more focused on searching for his toad than his safety. Alexander thrice caught the poor boy by the back of his robe, finally just deciding trade places, guiding Neville onto the inner, smoother part of the trail.

“Thanks,” he stammered after a barrage of apologies.

“Yeh’ll get yer firs’ sight o’ Hogwarts in a sec,” the man called over his shoulder, “jus’ round this bend here.”

A vast, regal castle graced with turrets and towers stood on a mountain ahead of the shimmering lake in front of them. Students gasped and started whispering amongst themselves as they were herded onto the small boats lying in wait for them.

“No more’n four to a boat!” the guide said, but all their attention was focused on Hogwarts. He found room in a boat that already had pair of students, and saw Hermione beckon Neville into a boat with two other boys a few yards to his left. A red-faced girl nervously took a seat next to him, just seconds before the man commanded “FORWARD,” and the boats began moving, unassisted, across the lake. It took every nerve of his being not to flinch, but he should have put two and two together after seeing the distinct lack of oars.

A small croak followed by a girl’s scream directly into his ear pulled his attention to a large lump on the bottom of the boat, otherwise known as Trevor. The girl rammed into him in fear, and the two across from them slid as far as possible from it. 

But before Alexander could decide what to do about the girl latched to his side and the amphibian on the ground, a yell came from a few boats ahead, “Heads down!”

The front of the fleet was nearing the cliff that made the foundation of the castle, and all the student bent their heads as the little boats carried them towards what looked like a large tunnel with an entrance obscured by a curtain of ivy. The deeper they went inside the lightless tunnel, the stronger the girl’s grip was on his arm. But the pressure ended when the large guide gestured for them to disembark onto a small, rocky harbor underneath the castle. 

Trevor jumped out the boat before any students could and Alexander watched from his spot as Neville darted towards the ugly creature and made several attempts to grab it.  
“Everyone here? You there, still got yer toad?” the gruff voice of the man asked over the students’ heads. Neville held Trevor up proudly, only for the toad to escape from his hands again as the body of students made their way up some steps to a large oak door. The man knocked and the door swung open, revealing a familiar face.

“The firs’ years, Professor McGonagall,” said the man.

“Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here.” 

She pulled the door further open, showing a spacious entrance hall that made King’s College’s look like a lavatory. Stone walls were dotted with torches that illuminated the room more than could be natural, but didn’t reach the top of the seemingly endless high ceiling. Professor McGonagall led them across the flagged stone floor, past a doorway that emitted the rumble of hundreds of others, past the stunning marble staircase in the center, and into an empty room. All he had seen within the past hour alone was incomparable to anything else in the whole of his life.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” began McGonagall, in a tone that bordered on warning. Alexander was glad to see little had changed within their month apart.

“The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend free time in your house common room,” her eyes continued to look over the students.

“The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rulebreaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the house cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours. The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting.”

Her eyes lingered for a moment on a few boys at the very front, one of whom was Neville.

“I shall return when we are ready for you,” said Professor McGonagall. “Please wait quietly.” 

The tension was palpable. Children whispered amongst themselves, and Alexander several times heard the same question in some form or another: “How do they sort us?” He spotted Hermione, just a few feet to his left, was muttering spell incantations, trying to remember every term in each of their books. His mind drifted to their discussion on the train, “We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes’ time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately,” announced the disembodied voice echoing down the Express.

Neville alternated between wringing his hands and fiddling with his robe, his face a picture of pure fear. Alexander, sitting much more stiffly than he had been a second ago, gazed at the thick forests beyond the window. 

The uncertainty surrounding Hogwarts and his distressing unfamiliarity with this magical world dug at him more than anything else he could recall. As pleasant and enlightening as his conversation with Hermione and Neville was, the feeling of gross unpreparedness nagged his mind―and for the first instance in a very long time, he found himself unconfident in his ability to fake it. Would these born and bred wizards know his history? That he was a foreigner in more than ability?

He didn’t turn when Hermione popped back in, only half-listening as she complained about in-carriage brawls and fat rats. The train’s stop prompted a rush of noise and excitement in perhaps every carriage but their own. Neville still looked to be on the verge of vomiting and Hermione’s complaints turned into fretted rambling. The three of them exchanged glances and began pushing their way off of the train, sandwiched between the robed bodies of older students. 

“Wai―I can’t―Trevor?” Neville yelled.

The crisp, autumn air hit Alexander suddenly, and Neville’s yells were drowned by the clamor created by hundreds of students. Alexander could spot neither him or Hermione in his immediate surroundings. Weaving his way through the sea of his fellow students, he neared a voice that exceeded the volume of all others, howling, “Firs’ years! Firs’ years over here!”

He paused once approaching the source.

Alexander had long understood and come to terms with not being of tall stock. He took little shame in it, and didn’t expect to tower over anyone he met, especially now, but the sheer size of the man in front of him was beyond ridiculous. The man’s face was obscured by dark hair, and similarly colored dark eyes that were only made visible by the lantern he carried. There was a sizeable group of children―his future peers, he assumed―gathered around the giant, and more being called. While the rest of students unabashadley stared at the man, Alexander looked at the narrow, uncobbled path that led into the forest ahead and straightened his back.

“C’mon, follow me — any more firs’ years? Mind yer step, now! Firs’ years follow me!” the man said once their group had stopped growing. They sludged down the path, fear and anxiety potent in the air. He kept his posture formal and minded his step, eventually reaching Neville who had stumbled several times, more focused on searching for his toad than his safety. Alexander thrice caught the poor boy by the back of his robe, finally just deciding trade places, guiding Neville onto the inner, smoother part of the trail.

“Thanks,” he stammered after a barrage of apologies.

“Yeh’ll get yer firs’ sight o’ Hogwarts in a sec,” the man called over his shoulder, “jus’ round this bend here.”

A vast, regal castle graced with turrets and towers stood on a mountain ahead of the shimmering lake in front of them. Students gasped and started whispering amongst themselves as they were herded onto the small boats lying in wait for them.

“No more’n four to a boat!” the guide said, but all their attention was focused on Hogwarts. He found room in a boat that already had pair of students, and saw Hermione beckon Neville into a boat with two other boys a few yards to his left. A red-faced girl nervously took a seat next to him, just seconds before the man commanded “FORWARD,” and the boats began moving, unassisted, across the lake. It took every nerve of his being not to flinch, but he should have put two and two together after seeing the distinct lack of oars.

A small croak followed by a girl’s scream directly into his ear pulled his attention to a large lump on the bottom of the boat, otherwise known as Trevor. The girl rammed into him in fear, and the two across from them slid as far as possible from it. 

But before Alexander could decide what to do about the girl latched to his side and the amphibian on the ground, a yell came from a few boats ahead, “Heads down!”

The front of the fleet was nearing the cliff that made the foundation of the castle, and all the student bent their heads as the little boats carried them towards what looked like a large tunnel with an entrance obscured by a curtain of ivy. The deeper they went inside the lightless tunnel, the stronger the girl’s grip was on his arm. But the pressure ended when the large guide gestured for them to disembark onto a small, rocky harbor underneath the castle. 

Trevor jumped out the boat before any students could and Alexander watched from his spot as Neville darted towards the ugly creature and made several attempts to grab it.  
“Everyone here? You there, still got yer toad?” the gruff voice of the man asked over the students’ heads. Neville held Trevor up proudly, only for the toad to escape from his hands again as the body of students made their way up some steps to a large oak door. The man knocked and the door swung open, revealing a familiar face.

“The firs’ years, Professor McGonagall,” said the man.

“Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here.” 

She pulled the door further open, showing a spacious entrance hall that made King’s College’s look like a lavatory. Stone walls were dotted with torches that illuminated the room more than could be natural, but didn’t reach the top of the seemingly endless high ceiling. Professor McGonagall led them across the flagged stone floor, past a doorway that emitted the rumble of hundreds of others, past the stunning marble staircase in the center, and into an empty room. All he had seen within the past hour alone was incomparable to anything else in the whole of his life.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” began McGonagall, in a tone that bordered on warning. Alexander was glad to see little had changed within their month apart.

“The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend free time in your house common room,” her eyes continued to look over the students.

“The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rulebreaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the house cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours. The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting.”

Her eyes lingered for a moment on a few boys at the very front, one of whom was Neville.

“I shall return when we are ready for you,” said Professor McGonagall. “Please wait quietly.” 

The tension was palpable. Children whispered amongst themselves, and Alexander several times heard the same question in some form or another: “How do they sort us?” He spotted Hermione, just a few feet to his left, was muttering spell incantations, trying to remember every term in each of their books. His mind drifted to their discussion on the train, Hogwarts: A History had been mysteriously vague on the Sorting ceremony, but McGonagall told him that the book contained everything a student needed to know. Were the machinations of sorting uninteresting and insignificant? Or was Bathilda Bagshot a sadistic witch―

For the second time that evening, a girl screamed directly in his ear. Though it wasn’t the pink-faced one from the boat, whose scream came from the other side of the room, the gesture continued to be greatly unappreciated. A mass of white, floating shapes had approached them, out of the stone wall on the opposite side of the corridor. He supposed that the appearance of ghosts was a valid reason for a little girl to screech.

“New students!” said a heavy-set, translucent monk, looking jovially at them. “About to be Sorted, I suppose?” 

A few people nodded. The monk was halfway through advertising for Hufflepuff when Professor McGonagall returned through the large doors and led them behind her, single-file, into a dining hall. Hundreds of candles floated over the long wooden tables, set with golden plates and goblets. The other first-years split their attention between trying to find siblings along the tables and staring at the enchanted ceiling as McGonagall led them to the front. Alexander had his eyes trained on the professors at the front, particularly the bizarrely-dressed, long bearded old man who he assumed to be Headmaster Dumbledore. He was the only face he could put a name to, not knowing much of him beyond the loopy signature on his acceptance letter, the list of credentials and honors after his name, and the revering tone that McGonagall spoke of him in.

A quiet settled over the hall. Alexander, along with the rest of the students, turned to the stool in front of them, and the hat―not dissimilar to the one McGonagall wore on her head―on top of it. The dirty rag twitched several times, leaving Alexander wondered what could be inside of it, before it went rigid and began singing. 

“Oh, you may not think I’m pretty,  
But don’t judge on what you see,  
I’ll eat myself if you can find  
A smarter hat than me.  
You can keep your bowlers black,  
Your top hats sleek and tall,  
For I’m the Hogwarts Sorting Hat  
And I can cap them all.  
There’s nothing hidden in your head  
The Sorting Hat can’t see,  
So try me on and I will tell you  
Where you ought to be.  
You might belong in Gryffindor,  
Where dwell the brave at heart,  
Their daring, nerve, and chivalry  
Set Gryffindors apart;  
You might belong in Hufflepuff,  
Where they are just and loyal,  
Those patient Hufflepuffs are true  
And unafraid of toil;  
Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,  
if you’ve a ready mind,  
Where those of wit and learning,  
Will always find their kind;  
Or perhaps in Slytherin  
You’ll make your real friends,  
Those cunning folk use any means  
To achieve their ends.  
So put me on!  
Don’t be afraid!  
And don’t get in a flap!  
You’re in safe hands (though I have none)  
For I’m a Thinking Cap!”

Applause from students and staff alike echoed through the Great Hall. More so for the shock on the first years’ faces than the hat’s song, he thought. 

“When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted,” McGonagall called, holding a long roll of parchment in front of her. “Abbott, Hannah.”

The pink-faced girl who screamed on the boat walked up nearly shivering and sat on the stool.  
The Hat yelled, “HUFFLEPUFF!” and Hannah shuffled towards the cheering of her new house.

Alexander hadn’t agonized over his house placement, unlike the many first-years here, it appeared.

“Bones, Susan!” 

“HUFFLEPUFF!” shouted the hat again, and Susan scuttled off to sit next to Hannah. 

After rereading and pondering on Bagshot’s book, and especially now after the Sorting Hat’s explanation, he had come to a conclusion.

“Boot, Terry!”

“RAVENCLAW!” a group of upperclassmen shook Terry’s hand.

He would do well in any house, he knew that for a fact. It certainly wasn’t arrogant to think that loyalty, intelligence, courage, and ambition were all qualities his character exemplified.

“Brocklehurst, Mandy.”

“RAVENCLAW!”

Hell, any single one of the traits could have been the one that killed him, if the right argument was presented.

A Brown went to Gryffindor, who offered the most energetic welcome yet, and Bulstrode to Slytherin.

Loyalty to his ideals and morals led him to accept Burr’s challenge, his intelligence carried him through his life and to that moment.

“Granger, Hermione.”

“Gryffindor!” said the hat.

Courage allowed him to bid Eliza goodbye that morning.

He took a step forward, “Hamilton, Alexander.”

Ambition, a negative trait to exhibit, or so he was told, catapulted him onto the Weehawken grounds. He walked to the stool, sat, and placed the hat on his head.

“Well,” said a voice he knew only he could here. “Mr. Hamilton, I must admit, this is quite the experience.” He waited, his palms beginning to sweat and not quite sure what to think.

“Interesting, but no need worry or lager. The determination says it all. You, without a doubt, belong in SLYTHERIN,” shouting the final word out to the hall. He set his jaw and began to take off the hat, catching the words, “Your secret is safe with me.”

McGonagall’s eyes met his as he lowered himself from the stool, giving him a curt nod and a pleased look, both of which he returned. He took brisk strides to the curt applause of the Slytherin table, taking a seat near a Daphne Greengrass after receiving a nod and pat on the shoulder from either Prefect.

Neville was next to be called. He drew attention by stumbling on his way to the hat, which took quite some time before placing him in Gryffindor, and then forgetting to remove it from his head. Alexander didn’t join in the laughter echoed from every side of the hall, which was more taunting than good-natured, especially from his side at the Slytherin table.

But he decided he preferred the stand-offish formality of his new house to the boisterity of the Gryffindors. He further examined the army of students sitting eagerly at the tables around him, and was again reminded that he was surrounded by children. Of course they laughed at Neville, they were children too. Sure, he wasn’t nearly as stupid as they were when he was of their age, but judging them so quickly was unreasonable. 

An interruption came when the name “Potter, Harry,” was called. Several people stood to get a view of the front and indiscreet whispers took hold all around the hall.

“The Harry Potter,” they all asked.

Alexander paused the tapping of his fingers on the bench, and spotted the boy walking, with the same worry on his face most of the other students showed, to the stool. He was scrawny, seemed a bit shifty as well. Nothing remarkable about him physically, he donned a pair of glasses and wore his hair disheveled. Everyone was focused on him, and Alexander hadn’t a clue who he was beside recalling him walking side-by-side to redhead back at the entrance. 

The hat fell over his glasses, and Alexander wasn’t quite close enough to decipher the expression on the bottom half of his face. Within a few moments, he was given a hero’s welcome to Gryffindor, complete with chanting and whooping.

A polite hush resettled once McGonagall called the next name from the scroll, and leveled the Gryffindor table with a stern look. 

The remainder of the Sorting Ceremony continued uninterrupted, ending with the headmaster imparting upon them a few nonsense words and stacks of food appearing on the table. He ate slowly and with the mannerism of a sensible gentlemen, a habit he would need to get back in touch with. A ghost, known as the Bloody Baron, hovered near the table, speaking to them of the honor of Slytherin house. Alexander did a much better job hiding the fear and disgust from his face than the other first-years, even though he had the best view of the off-putting stab wound in his heart―a small victory he took pride in.

The dessert course came and went, but before the droopy-eyed children could be assigned their dorms, the headmaster had a few more words to say,”I have a few start-of-term notices to give you.”

The entire hall faced him, "First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well."

Amusement showed on his face when he looked at the rowdy twins sat at the front of the Gryffindor table, "I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors. Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch. And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."

This prompted chuckles from a few and concern from the rest of the student body, leaving Alexander unsure what to make of it. They were dismissed and followed the prefects out to the entrance hall and down a set of stone steps.

“This staircase leads to the dungeons, which is where you’ll find the common room, your dorms, and Professor Snape’s Potions classroom,” said the prefect who had introduced herself as Gemma Farley.

Reaching the landing, Gemma led them right, left, then right again to a stone wall, “Quiet in the back,” she said, stopping the complaints of his new classmate, Pansy Parkinson.

“You’d do well to remember the path we took and not tell it to any friends you have outside the house. This is the entrance to our common room,” she said, gesturing to the wall that clearly had no entrance.

“The Twenty-Eight,” said Robinson, the other prefect. The smooth stone wall then revealed a simple passage, “is the password, it’ll change two weeks from now. You’ll be notified about the new passwords on the board in the common room.”

It was, as he expected, incredibly elegant. The main fire crackled over an ornate, carved mantelpiece with a stone snake resting on it. Similarly designed chairs and sofas were placed in the center and sides of the grand chamber, cushioned and accented with varying shades of green. Several of the older students lounged, their muted tones only adding to the allure of the room. They were allowed to gawk for a few moments longer before Farley herded the girls into the entrance to their dormitories and Robinson turned the boys in the other direction.

A corridor lined with doors on either sides awaited them, Robinson stopped at the third one down then spoke,”There isn’t much to know that hasn’t already been said. McGonagall warned you all about the point system, Slytherin has one the house cup six years running, do not ruin that. If you want to act like fools, save it for Snape’s class, where you won’t be penalized.”

His voice was deadpan, and a blond boy called Malfoy visibly bristled.

“Lastly, remember what the Hat said, Slytherin is your net for the rest of your Hogwarts years. If you need any assistance, come to Gemma, myself, or any upperclassman. Everyone here would rather you ask before doing something stupid and embarrassing our house.

“Breakfast is served at 7:30, where you’ll also receive your schedules. Don’t be late to your first class,” Robinson then swung open the dorm door and walked down the hall to what Alexander assumed was his own room.

Each of the boys lingered for a moment, glanced at each other, then shuffled into the dorm where there belongings waited. It was a handsome room, similar to the common room. Six green curtained four-poster beds, a small sitting area in the middle, and windows on every wall opening to an underwater view. 

Just as he hoped, none of the yawning boys seemed interested in doing much more than changing out of their robes and launching themselves into sleep. They each shuffled towards the bed with their trunks at the foot and closed pulled their curtains shut.

Alexander laid on his new bed, the unfamiliar scent of the sheets keeping him from sleep. The idea of a warm shower tempted him, but an unwillingness to disturb the other boys kept him tucked beneath his blankets.

He wanted to be part of this magical community, to distinguish himself as a member of it as well, but he could not see himself completely comfortable in this school. He didn't know how much they knew, how much they could know, and certainly didn’t want to tell them. For the first time in his memory, Alexander was utterly unsure of his direction. Without direction it would be impossible for him to establish himself―to be content. It was a painful truth that lingered with him for years now. But he had no choice but continue as he had before without plan, purpose, or people. _Hogwarts: A History_ had been mysteriously vague on the Sorting ceremony, but McGonagall told him that the book contained everything a student needed to know. Were the machinations of sorting uninteresting and insignificant? Or was Bathilda Bagshot a sadistic witch―

For the second time that evening, a girl screamed directly in his ear. Though it wasn’t the pink-faced one from the boat, whose scream came from the other side of the room, the gesture continued to be greatly unappreciated. A mass of white, floating shapes had approached them, out of the stone wall on the opposite side of the corridor. He supposed that the appearance of ghosts was a valid reason for a little girl to screech.

“New students!” said a heavy-set, translucent monk, looking jovially at them. “About to be Sorted, I suppose?” 

A few people nodded. The monk was halfway through advertising for Hufflepuff when Professor McGonagall returned through the large doors and led them behind her, single-file, into a dining hall. Hundreds of candles floated over the long wooden tables, set with golden plates and goblets. The other first-years split their attention between trying to find siblings along the tables and staring at the enchanted ceiling as McGonagall led them to the front. Alexander had his eyes trained on the professors at the front, particularly the bizarrely-dressed, long bearded old man who he assumed to be Headmaster Dumbledore. He was the only face he could put a name to, not knowing much of him beyond the loopy signature on his acceptance letter, the list of credentials and honors after his name, and the revering tone that McGonagall spoke of him in.

A quiet settled over the hall. Alexander, along with the rest of the students, turned to the stool in front of them, and the hat―not dissimilar to the one McGonagall wore on her head―on top of it. The dirty rag twitched several times, leaving Alexander wondered what could be inside of it, before it went rigid and began singing. 

“Oh, you may not think I’m pretty,  
But don’t judge on what you see,  
I’ll eat myself if you can find  
A smarter hat than me.  
You can keep your bowlers black,  
Your top hats sleek and tall,  
For I’m the Hogwarts Sorting Hat  
And I can cap them all.  
There’s nothing hidden in your head  
The Sorting Hat can’t see,  
So try me on and I will tell you  
Where you ought to be.  
You might belong in Gryffindor,  
Where dwell the brave at heart,  
Their daring, nerve, and chivalry  
Set Gryffindors apart;  
You might belong in Hufflepuff,  
Where they are just and loyal,  
Those patient Hufflepuffs are true  
And unafraid of toil;  
Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,  
if you’ve a ready mind,  
Where those of wit and learning,  
Will always find their kind;  
Or perhaps in Slytherin  
You’ll make your real friends,  
Those cunning folk use any means  
To achieve their ends.  
So put me on!  
Don’t be afraid!  
And don’t get in a flap!  
You’re in safe hands (though I have none)  
For I’m a Thinking Cap!”

Applause from students and staff alike echoed through the Great Hall. More so for the shock on the first years’ faces than the hat’s song, he thought. 

“When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted,” McGonagall called, holding a long roll of parchment in front of her. “Abbott, Hannah.”

The pink-faced girl who screamed on the boat walked up nearly shivering and sat on the stool.  
The Hat yelled, “HUFFLEPUFF!” and Hannah shuffled towards the cheering of her new house.

Alexander hadn’t agonized over his house placement, unlike the many first-years here, it appeared.

“Bones, Susan!” 

“HUFFLEPUFF!” shouted the hat again, and Susan scuttled off to sit next to Hannah. 

After rereading and pondering on Bagshot’s book, and especially now after the Sorting Hat’s explanation, he had come to a conclusion.

“Boot, Terry!”

“RAVENCLAW!” a group of upperclassmen shook Terry’s hand.

He would do well in any house, he knew that for a fact. It certainly wasn’t arrogant to think that loyalty, intelligence, courage, and ambition were all qualities his character exemplified.

“Brocklehurst, Mandy.”

“RAVENCLAW!”

Hell, any single one of the traits could have been the one that killed him, if the right argument was presented.

A Brown went to Gryffindor, who offered the most energetic welcome yet, and Bulstrode to Slytherin.

Loyalty to his ideals and morals led him to accept Burr’s challenge, his intelligence carried him through his life and to that moment.

“Granger, Hermione.”

“Gryffindor!” said the hat.

Courage allowed him to bid Eliza goodbye that morning.

He took a step forward, “Hamilton, Alexander.”

Ambition, a negative trait to exhibit, or so he was told, catapulted him onto the Weehawken grounds. He walked to the stool, sat, and placed the hat on his head.

“Well,” said a voice he knew only he could here. “Mr. Hamilton, I must admit, this is quite the experience.” He waited, his palms beginning to sweat and not quite sure what to think.

“Interesting, but no need worry or lager. The determination says it all. You, without a doubt, belong in SLYTHERIN,” shouting the final word out to the hall. He set his jaw and began to take off the hat, catching the words, “Your secret is safe with me.”

McGonagall’s eyes met his as he lowered himself from the stool, giving him a curt nod and a pleased look, both of which he returned. He took brisk strides to the curt applause of the Slytherin table, taking a seat near a Daphne Greengrass after receiving a nod and pat on the shoulder from either Prefect.

Neville was next to be called. He drew attention by stumbling on his way to the hat, which took quite some time before placing him in Gryffindor, and then forgetting to remove it from his head. Alexander didn’t join in the laughter echoed from every side of the hall, which was more taunting than good-natured, especially from his side at the Slytherin table.

But he decided he preferred the stand-offish formality of his new house to the boisterity of the Gryffindors. He further examined the army of students sitting eagerly at the tables around him, and was again reminded that he was surrounded by children. Of course they laughed at Neville, they were children too. Sure, he wasn’t nearly as stupid as they were when he was of their age, but judging them so quickly was unreasonable. 

An interruption came when the name “Potter, Harry,” was called. Several people stood to get a view of the front and indiscreet whispers took hold all around the hall.

“The Harry Potter,” they all asked.

Alexander paused the tapping of his fingers on the bench, and spotted the boy walking, with the same worry on his face most of the other students showed, to the stool. He was scrawny, seemed a bit shifty as well. Nothing remarkable about him physically, he donned a pair of glasses and wore his hair disheveled. Everyone was focused on him, and Alexander hadn’t a clue who he was beside recalling him walking side-by-side to redhead back at the entrance. 

The hat fell over his glasses, and Alexander wasn’t quite close enough to decipher the expression on the bottom half of his face. Within a few moments, he was given a hero’s welcome to Gryffindor, complete with chanting and whooping.

A polite hush resettled once McGonagall called the next name from the scroll, and leveled the Gryffindor table with a stern look. 

The remainder of the Sorting Ceremony continued uninterrupted, ending with the headmaster imparting upon them a few nonsense words and stacks of food appearing on the table. He ate slowly and with the mannerism of a sensible gentlemen, a habit he would need to get back in touch with. A ghost, known as the Bloody Baron, hovered near the table, speaking to them of the honor of Slytherin house. Alexander did a much better job hiding the fear and disgust from his face than the other first-years, even though he had the best view of the off-putting stab wound in his heart―a small victory he took pride in.

The dessert course came and went, but before the droopy-eyed children could be assigned their dorms, the headmaster had a few more words to say,”I have a few start-of-term notices to give you.”

The entire hall faced him, "First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well."

Amusement showed on his face when he looked at the rowdy twins sat at the front of the Gryffindor table, "I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors. Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch. And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."

This prompted chuckles from a few and concern from the rest of the student body, leaving Alexander unsure what to make of it. They were dismissed and followed the prefects out to the entrance hall and down a set of stone steps.

“This staircase leads to the dungeons, which is where you’ll find the common room, your dorms, and Professor Snape’s Potions classroom,” said the prefect who had introduced herself as Gemma Farley.

Reaching the landing, Gemma led them right, left, then right again to a stone wall, “Quiet in the back,” she said, stopping the complaints of his new classmate, Pansy Parkinson.

“You’d do well to remember the path we took and not tell it to any friends you have outside the house. This is the entrance to our common room,” she said, gesturing to the wall that clearly had no entrance.

“The Twenty-Eight,” said Robinson, the other prefect. The smooth stone wall then revealed a simple passage, “is the password, it’ll change two weeks from now. You’ll be notified about the new passwords on the board in the common room.”

It was, as he expected, incredibly elegant. The main fire crackled over an ornate, carved mantelpiece with a stone snake resting on it. Similarly designed chairs and sofas were placed in the center and sides of the grand chamber, cushioned and accented with varying shades of green. Several of the older students lounged, their muted tones only adding to the allure of the room. They were allowed to gawk for a few moments longer before Farley herded the girls into the entrance to their dormitories and Robinson turned the boys in the other direction.

A corridor lined with doors on either sides awaited them, Robinson stopped at the third one down then spoke,”There isn’t much to know that hasn’t already been said. McGonagall warned you all about the point system, Slytherin has one the house cup six years running, do not ruin that. If you want to act like fools, save it for Snape’s class, where you won’t be penalized.”

His voice was deadpan, and a blond boy called Malfoy visibly bristled.

“Lastly, remember what the Hat said, Slytherin is your net for the rest of your Hogwarts years. If you need any assistance, come to Gemma, myself, or any upperclassman. Everyone here would rather you ask before doing something stupid and embarrassing our house.

“Breakfast is served at 7:30, where you’ll also receive your schedules. Don’t be late to your first class,” Robinson then swung open the dorm door and walked down the hall to what Alexander assumed was his own room.

Each of the boys lingered for a moment, glanced at each other, then shuffled into the dorm where there belongings waited. It was a handsome room, similar to the common room. Six green curtained four-poster beds, a small sitting area in the middle, and windows on every wall opening to an underwater view. 

Just as he hoped, none of the yawning boys seemed interested in doing much more than changing out of their robes and launching themselves into sleep. They each shuffled towards the bed with their trunks at the foot and closed pulled their curtains shut.

Alexander laid on his new bed, the unfamiliar scent of the sheets keeping him from sleep. The idea of a warm shower tempted him, but an unwillingness to disturb the other boys kept him tucked beneath his blankets.

He wanted to be part of this magical community, to distinguish himself as a member of it as well, but he could not see himself completely comfortable in this school. He didn't know how much they knew, how much they could know, and certainly didn’t want to tell them. For the first time in his memory, Alexander was utterly unsure of his direction. Without direction it would be impossible for him to establish himself―to be content. It was a painful truth that lingered with him for years now. But he had no choice but continue as he had before: without plan, purpose, or people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter wasn't as long as i wanted to be, nor did it cover all i wanted it to but c'est la vie. i would greatly appreciate comments, kudos, and fucking ideas i guess. i'm confident (in the loosest sense of the word) in this fic's general direction but have no clue how to fill the time and deviate from canon enough to make it interesting. i also hope to god that there'll be a story summary up by the time the next chapter get's out. enough of the mindless rambling though, i hope everyone enjoyed (and let me know if you did bc i'm v thirsty.)


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